Utopia
by computasaysnoo
Summary: To what lengths will we go, to what extents will we reach to live the life we imagined? When the world comes to an end, vampires will begin to seek Utopia. Edward sets out to find it but when he slowly, yet unexpectedly, falls for Jasper, it is more than just earth that crumbles around him. Rated M for Sexual Content Edward/Jasper, Emmett/Rosalie. M/M Slash.


**~ Utopia ~**

~ When the end of the earth is near, humanity is warned by one iconic movement: The search for Utopia, the new world, a modern paradise reserved only for vampires. But the vampires are not united; the Voltori and various covens seek Utopia for themselves. Edward, too, is drawn to it and meets many friends, enemies and obstacles on the way. As the earth crumbles around them and the road to Utopia becomes increasingly more perilous, can Edward and his new family, his coven, make it there in one piece? _Narrative perspective will change. Rated M for language and sexual content. ~_

Hello! Thank you for reading. This is my newest story that follows Edward's journey to Utopia! I really hope all of you like it. Please feel free to follow, favorite and review if you enjoy it. Also, you can check out my last novel-length story that recently ended called "Morphine," through my page. This story is loosely inspired by the Japanese series, "Wolf's Rain" that ended a few years ago.

This story includes M/M combinations in a sexual context so if that's not your cup of tea, this might not be for you! ;-D. Again, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Edward**

To what lengths will we go, to what extents will we reach, to live the life we imagined for ourselves? I fear there is no such place as Utopia. I will wander every corner, every reach of the earth to find it, but there is nothing. The path is endless, fruitless and sets me always back to where I began. But yet, under the husky moon of my birth, and the starless sky of my death, I am called to find it, to feel it, to live it and to save it. For this is what I am supposed to do. For this is the path laid out before my eyes. For this is my destiny.

My eyes opened with purpose on October 28th 1985. I'm told it was clear sky that night. Cold, but clear nonetheless. A full blood moon hovered over my aching mother and my father hunted beneath its neon hues. I am a miracle, they say; a freak of nature. Vampires can't have babies. The women are sterile after they transmute. We cannot proliferate. However I apparently defied this biology and when my mother discovered her pregnancy, my family was cast out by the Voltori and we were labeled freaks, gene-mutants, "people" best shuffled off into the shadows of the forest, never to be seen again. "Vampires can't conceive outside of Utopia," we were told. "It's not possible."

"Utopia doesn't exist," said my father. "It's only a myth." I was told that I was proof of the evolution of vampires. I was told that the Voltori feared my existence because I could, perhaps, prove that vampires were becoming more "human." I was told that my existence on earth came with great responsibility, purpose. But I knew not of what that meant. Trees, rope-swings and insects within jars!

As I got older, I felt in the unexplainable, unexplored facets of my soul that my father was wrong. The lyrics of Utopia would sing me to sleep; the sight of its rolling green hills would flash evanescently across the blackness of my closed eyes, and the touch of its silky waters would glide past my fingertips like a hallucination. Utopia was as real to me as a blue-sky littered with clouds. It was real, I knew it, but it just had to be found. The urge to set out became unbearable. I was overwhelmed, consumed.

"Tell me about Utopia," I would ask my father, over and over. Over and over.

"I've told you thousands of times," he would reply, but I knew he enjoyed telling me the story even though it ended religiously with, "but it's just a myth." At the end of the world, when the ocean decided to be no more and when the plates could no longer carry their continental burdens, the earth would come to an immediate end. Skyscrapers, vehicles, homes and artillery would crumble en masse into crevices and tears in the rock and land below. The ice-caps would extend across the remainder of the plains before all would descend into nothingness and life, as we know it, as we perceive it, would perish uniformly, accordingly, like it never truly existed. Every molecule of life from the minute bacteria to the extensive blue-whales would be swallowed up equally and obliterated into the voids, never to be seen again. Lights out.

But before this, the human populace would be warned by an iconic movement: The search for Utopia. They say that when vampires begin to seek out Utopia that the end of earth is near. It is ensconcing itself. But it is a false-hope as far as the humans are concerned; only vampires may enter Utopia. Mythology states that when the time comes for everything to end, the "key" to Utopia shall expose itself and vampires shall magnetize towards it like a moth to a bulb. In Utopia, vampires would proliferate and it would become the new world, the new earth: An Eden reserved for us - a place of perfection where we need not hide from the majority, for we _are_ the majority. The "concept" of Utopia is widely cherished by romantics and heads of vampire covens because it provides an end-goal, a purpose for our exile from society and its inability to accept even the vegetarians of our populace. Like Utopia, we too are supposedly myths confined to story books, movies or certain touristy regions of Romania. We are mocked by halloween costumes and actors who naively provide the world with fancies and follies about our existence. Many of us have, including myself, come to resent humans and their blindness to what lurks unwillingly in the shadows.

It was humans who murdered my mother and father. Few of them believe in our existence but the ones who do hunt us relentlessly. It is these people who are labeled "crazy" by society for believing in fantasies such as vampires. Pitch-forks and knives drove through my parents' stony hearts and killed them for the second time. I was spared when my father hid me in a chamber beneath a floor-plank. I was thirteen.

Since then I have raised myself in the forest, away from people. I am a true vampire and I live on the blood of animals and the occasional unfortunate hunter who strolls past the gravesite of my parents, hoping to catch another "hive" of vampires to ceremoniously murder. I have thought myself pitiful and lonely but I am ever guided and rejuvenated by the detrimental need to venture else-where better; somewhere divine. The whispers became murmurs and the murmurs became speech and before I could latch onto the juggler of yet another wild-boar, I was called by a chant that said, sweetly, like a stern lullaby, "search for Utopia." I knew in that moment that the branches of the high canopy were temporary. I knew that the firmness beneath my feet and the birds gliding over my head would all be gone soon. And what shook me from one end to the other was that these eyes, this nose and this mouth were at risk of being temporary too. I knew the end was near, this was the beginning, and my survival was a condition upon finding Utopia.

I dreamt that a breeze wafted past my nose and I smelt it, finally. It came from the sap of the gyrus trees, found only in the dimension of Utopia, nowhere else. They have a distinct smell that has no earthly equivalent except for being somewhat close to a mixture of jasmine and lavender. I knew now that the Voltori's belief in Utopia was true. I sprinted in the direction of the derivative, tumbling down slopes and through vines only to leap back to my feet and continue on. I broke my ankle along the way but I didn't realize until petals and leaves became walls and concrete. I was entering the city known as Seattle; there were streets and paths instead of open space and fields but this didn't deter me from spotting where I needed to go and what I needed to find. I could smell the scent of Utopia here on earth and it was coming from the key located somewhere within this concrete jungle. I could feel the heartbeat of Utopia and as I was one step closer to finding it, the earth was one step closer to its inevitable demise.

My eyes were like lightening when they shot open. The city plastered in my dreams zipped away from my vision and I was level with the sweeped grass that tilted towards my nose. My dreamy proximity to the key to Utopia was gone and I was living an ideal again. Except for one difference; the smell of the gyrus trees. It had crossed the frontier of my dreams and was real, simmering in front of my nostrils. I jolted to my feet. It was time.

It was finally time.

It was time to find Utopia.

* * *

**Carlisle**

I don't mind being the ear of Seattle. In fact, I quite enjoy it. Not to swipe my own ego but I happen to a wizard for names. Since I took up this job at the library, the passersby seem to have taken a liking to me. Maybe I have a noble aura about me but whatever the case, my days continually seem to end with me on the red leather lounge-chair listening to the affairs of a customer who decided to spill and tell me all of his troubles and daily concerns. I have made many friends through this and I am quite fortunate. I like to hear how Joseph O'Malley's wife is doing with her arthritis and how many haddock Shelly May's brother managed to catch out at sea today. We vampires are quick to dismiss humans and the knowledge they retain and so I make an effort to speak with them and more importantly, listen to them.

Listening is what furthers you as a person. That is my philosophy.

I'm getting up there in age. I can't hide it. One look at the wrinkles beside my eyes will you stories of it. My cheeks haven't been immune to the ravaging of time either, for that matter. But with age comes great maturity. As I look back on my life I can spot the shift when I moved from a "child" to an "adult." I didn't truly become grown-up until I was alone, which was around 45 years old. My parents died when I was young and left my sister and I to raise ourselves. We both became vampires after almost dying of malnutrition on a street and my sister soon left for the Voltori while I was raised by humans. My adopted parents too passed away near my 45th birthday and I was left definitively alone. I was, by no happy means, on my own two feet and completely self-reliant; an adult. I worked many jobs to keep my head above the water until I found myself here, at the library, organizing books, reading them and chatting with customers. It's simple but I love it very much.

As a vampire, I identify as a vegetarian. I have not once tasted human blood, nor have I ever had the urge to. Some may argue whether I am even a vampire at all! Seriously speaking, I only ever use my immortal traits to benefit me at times of need. For example, when I work the late shifts at the library, I fuse with the shadows stamped upon the walls when crossing through dangerous parts of town. Otherwise I lead a normal life, social, content, resolved. It's also worth noting that I am somewhat of an anomaly in the eyes of the Voltori in that I am the only known vampire who can age. I don't quite understand it personally but I try not to weigh myself down over it.

The grandfather clock knells at the hour and I wander to the lounge-chair where I sit and open a book. "Moksha," it is called, "the cycles of all things." Intrigued, I flip the first page and scan it with my eyes. I am wholeheartedly and consciously immersed and I decide to remain here for the time being. Philosophy has always been my weakness since god knows how long! Seattle tries to steal my attention by summoning its rain and droplets begin to lash against the front window. I am relaxed by the sound and breathe heavily, sinking into the cushion. I crave a coffee even though it makes me ill and I distract myself by bringing my mind to the book. But in my old-age, I have the attention span of a goldfish; I spot a busy coffee shop across the street and lick my lips with temptation. The smell of the ground beans comes under the door. Life is not fair to me! If only I had the legs to make it all the way there. I attempt to pull my eyes from the establishment like paper from glue but I fail and decide to bite the bullet and grab myself one cup. It couldn't hurt that much.

I wobble up to my 65 year old legs and amble to the door when I see a child outside drenched from the rain. His hair is sandy and wavy and he has honey brown eyes that peer up at me desperately. I unlatch the door and signal him in and he brushes his feet on the mat. "What are you doing out there alone?" I ask him, concerned. He must not be more than 14! "It's freezing outside!"

"Is it safe in here?" he asks me, shivering, just as a group of four young men sprint angrily past the front window. The boy sees them and yelps but they don't notice him and advance down the street shouting, "we'll find the little bastard!" I disappear to the back and find a knitted blanket and wrap it around the boy. I can tell by the whiteness of his face that he was connected to that mob somehow. "Were they looking for you?" I asked, kneeling to his level and tightening the blanket around his shoulders.

The boy nods hollowly, shakes but says nothing. I signal him over to the log fire and he follows with quiet appreciation. I offer him some cocoa but he swiftly declines, stating that he is allergic to it. I shrug my shoulders and sit on the chair opposite to him, folding one leg. "Would you like me to call your parents?" I ask.

"I don't have parents," he says, eyes on the fire. My brows furrow and I try again, doing my best to be understanding of whatever situation he was in. I ask him if he would like me to call _anyone_ in his family and he replies with, "I don't have _any_ family." I begin to think that this is a matter for social services and I stand up and ask the boy if he is dry. He nods again and hands me the blanket and I take it, my hand briefly gliding over his for a mere accidental second.

"Whoa!" he gasps, leaping to his feet alarmingly, shocking my sensitive nervous system to the core. Flustered, I almost do a 360 turn like in the cartoons back in the day and try to shuffle to find my balance. When I focus on the boy, he is even whiter than I noticed before and his mouth is wide open. I'm about to ask him what was wrong when his jaw jitters and he drawls out, "y-you're so cold."

_Cold? _I think to myself. _People tell me that I'm quite warm and loving. _The young teen proves to be more intuitive than I thought and he realizes that I am confused. "Your skin," he clarifies, pointing to my hand. "It's so cold." Shoot! Vampire skin! I rub my palms together and smile innocently. "I told you it's cold outside! Must be spreading indoors."

The boy looked at me up and down and appeared to take a sigh of relief, eventually coming to half-smile despite not explaining the reason for it. Being 65 and having little tact nowadays, I chanced to ask but he beat me again to it, explaining succinctly why the tension in his shoulders suddenly slipped away. "I'm the same," he says. "I'm a vampire too."

* * *

**Edward**

I entered my hut for the last time and gathered a few small supplies to last me the journey. I accumulated the beads that my father wore and from it was a locket with my mother's picture inside. We lived 300 miles from any hub of human civilization and so I was not raised with cameras, phones or computers; this locket was all I had to remember them. Beyond my memories and this chain around my neck, it is like my parents never truly existed.

If a tree falls in a forest and no-one hears it, did it ever fall?

I step outside and a plane flies over my head. I dislike its cacophony; we vampires have sensitive ears and the howling engines of aircrafts do nothing to help. But I peer up at it anyway and watch it glide away. I realize by squinting my eyes that it is not in fact an aircraft but rather a shuttle. It is pointed upwards and penetrates various layers of our atmosphere. It too is beginning a journey. I relate to the fusion of dread, excitement and determination that comes alongside the first step of an adventure into the unknown but I also feel sad. How must it feel to flounder so endlessly in the abysses of our universe with no set goal, no pre-determined destination beyond drifting from asteroid to planet, from planet to earth? It must be a lonelier journey than anyone could imagine, flying so blindly into the darkness believing therein lie the answers to the questions of the universe. And just like that it is gone, vanished behind the scars in the fleshy clouds, never to be seen by earthly eyes again. It soon shall not have a home to return to.

I smell the gyrus trees and the scent derives from the south. I set-out with little on my body and make decent speed. Traversing fields and stretching over countless brooks and streams reminds me of how secluded I am out here. I swallow the sadness that comes from the fact I will never see this forest again, but I think of Utopia and its rolling hills and tell myself that it is a better alternative. After-all, this is all temporary; Utopia is forever.

I do not know what the key to Utopia is. It could be an object, a place, a combination, a puzzle, a person. I have no idea beyond that I need to find it and use its powers to unlock the entrance to my heaven, our heaven. I know from my geography that the city is south of me and it is where the scent of the key is coming from. Associating Seattle with the notorious Voltori, I shiver with tamed anger and continue on pensively, considering the likelihood of this "key" already being in their possession. Infiltrating Voltorian ranks and bases to smuggle the key out sounds over-idealistic to me but there is little point in not trying. It is a matter of die-now or die-later if I do not try. I must try.

The stoic sun sets and I am brushing through nightly bristles. My feet are accustomed to pressing harder against soft soils and when pavement appears beneath me and I realize that I am "on-trail," I have to run through the mechanics of being human in my head. _Remember to pretend to breath_, I tell myself. _Remember to blink. Don't eat people publicly._

What could possibly go wrong?

I pursue the light at the end of the tunnel until the arboreal threshold is behind me and I am standing within the limits of a forest community. "Flushing Lakes," it is called. It reminds me of a human toilet. My father and I sometimes ventured into these villages to teach me how to "act human." He taught me what I know today and on one occasion, he insisted I accompany him to the city to take "the real test." People stopped and asked me directions and I had to act "normal." I'm lucky that I have been to this village and to the big city itself before, otherwise it would be overwhelmingly foreign to me. Not to say I am accustomed to cities either, however, but I have had a little exposure. I am fortunate.

I remain in the outskirts of Flushing Lakes so I may continue at my speed without alerting humans, the slowest movers of all. Flushing Lakes becomes Black Forest, and Black Forest becomes Badgeston. I reach Merrywell at nightfall and by the morning I am before the sight of Seattle. How grim it looks; rain pellets upon countless futile buildings. At least it is green, I can give it that much. I hear horror stories that recount how Seattle is one of the more "pretty" cities in the nation and I grimace at the idea of there being an "unpretty" alternative. Shaking my head, I lunge forward and prance into the skyline, where I too am engulfed into its enormity.

Humans live such purposeless lives. They are born within the walls of this city and remain here, proliferate here, and at best they fly to another city where they repeat the identical process. There is no room to appreciate the language of owls or the long, noble drapes of a willow tree. They live technological, materialistic lives with no regard for the greater world. They are born, live and die without marking even a droplet of ink upon the papers of time. Vampires are different; we do not age. Where humans are left behind, we live on, for we have beaten death and triumphantly rule over it.

I am tired by the time I am walking the watery streets of the city. It is raining hard and I thank the earth for reminding me that natural occurrences can in-fact take place within this concrete mess. But my hair is wet now and it is matted onto my forehead; my vision is impaired and I decide that it is best that I go inside somewhere to dry off. I see a coffee shop to my left. The smell makes me want to vomit. How humans drink that sourness is beyond where my mind can venture. Instead, I cross the street and stand in-front of a library. The door displays an open sign and I reach to enter until I am frozen solid by barbaric words: "Where's the little bastard? I know a fucking vampire when I see one."

I turn to the left and see a group of four men; bald, burly and built they are, with floppy sailor hats tilted to the left of their heads. They must work at the harbor. They look like a character my father pointed out to me in the city. I believe his name was Pop-Eye. I am stunned that I can make myself smile so vivaciously and just as the men shuffle by, I let out a snort. Small eyes pressed into brick-like foreheads cock towards me and I am locked in their vision. They assess me carefully from a distance and I do not move. We size each-other up for a moment until a van pulls over and all but one of the men tumble in. The last one eyes me with brute accuracy before apparently discerning that I am not a vampire and joins his comrades in the vehicle before it huffs and puffs down the street.

I blow out some air and press the anger out. It appears humans have become a little more aware of us. I must be extra vigilant. I am still shadowed, however, by the vast majority who do not believe in fancies and myths pertaining to my existence but I cannot be lax. I must treat every person like a possible threat if confronted. I cautiously open the entrance to the library and look around. It is very well-kept and tidy, but the signs are misplaced. Recipe books are positioned in "Native American History" aisles and many of the book covers are jutted forward because of a pen or pencil left vertically in the spines. Humans can be such forgetful folk. Their absent minds often astound me.

To the right I notice an old man sitting on a lounge chair beside a log fire. The burning wood reminds me of the forest and growing up to the smell of early-morning crackling campfires. My father flashes in the place of the man and I am left speechless for a moment before reality collects itself and I empty my lungs, a little disappointed. "Oh, hello!" says the man, wobbling to his feet. "I didn't hear you come in there. Can I help you with anything?"

I take a step back. "No, I'm fine."

"Ah ok," says the man with a smile. "Well my name's Carlisle so please shout if you need anything!" He returns to the seat and engages a different person in conversation, seemingly a child. I think of a way to explain how I only want to dry-off and not browse his array of books but before I can even think about how to go about saying it, my thoughts are addressed. "You look soaked, son. Come stand by the fire."

How did he know? Is this a trick? A trap? I eye the man meticulously and assess his physical condition. He looks rather feeble, a shivery state. I think I could defend myself if the need to arose. Deciding that I am safe, I slowly advance towards the fire and hover my hands over it. The heat feels good, my shoulders even drop. What is custom to say in response to a good-deed in the human world? I hear my father's voice say, "thank you," and I parrot it just as he used to say it. The old man smiles again and nods, screeching his chair to the side to give me more room. "Absolutely no problem!" he assures. "Stay as long as you like!"

I thank him again and bring my attention to the child to my right. He is pale, sandy-haired and slim. He looks like he's been dragged down a few alleyways before. If I saw him in the forest I'd think him a wood-cutter's son. He is dressed in discolored clothing and it's evident that he's been wearing the same outfit for a while. He also has that teenage look about him, where his body is somewhere between a child and adult skeleton and so structures itself with lanky and displaced dimensions. I am certain now that the threat here is minimal and I relax a little bit, but not too much. It is warm here and this tempts me to stay but the smell of the gyrus trees is more concentrated and intense here, reminding me that I cannot tarry.

"What was your name?" asked the librarian, who hasn't lost his smile. "I don't believe I caught it."

"Edward," I said, adding nothing more. I believed that the conversation had perished, but unfortunately the boy speaks up and exclaims, "I'm Julian! Nice to meet you!"

I nod and the boy huffs, making me aware that my social skills still need refining. "Nice to meet you too," I add, although I do little to change my tone or facial expression. His face lights up and he becomes more receptive to me. "Come sit down with us!" he proclaims, swiping to a third lounge-chair. "At least until the rain stops!" Water can often bring out many scents which can disrupt my ability to track the key. Perhaps he is right; I should stay and wait for the weather to dry up. I nod and lower myself onto the chair. Both of the humans' eyes are on me and both of them are smiling animatedly. Is it my hair? Something on my face? Just then, the boy speaks up and chuckles as if I should know what he is laughing at.

"So when're you going to tell us you're a vampire?" he chortles, winking to the old-man who now seems completely shocked.

"You too?" he exclaims. "And I thought Julian was a rare find! Three vampires in one room, well I'll be damned!"

I am confused. They cannot be vampires. It is not possible. They are humans! The man is old and the child doesn't even act like a vampire; I mistook him for a human. I think back to the possibility of a trap and I leap up and back away. "Who are you people?" I interrogate brashly, "what game are you playing?"

"Game?" asks the old-man, peering from the boy to me. "I'm afraid you've lost me."

"You say you're vampires," I growl, "don't insult me. You're not vampires. You're humans, just like the rest of them."

"Humans?" gasps the boy. "I'm not a human! I'm just like you."

"Wrong! Look at you two! You dress like them, sit like them, converse like them. How do you sit here and act just like them after what they did to us? They hunt us, kill us, and yet you act like them. Even if you are vampires by blood, you are humans by mind."

"And what's wrong with that?" the boy asked, innocently, naively.

I threw the door open and slammed it behind me, the rain swashing in my face. My father would've been disgusted to see these pathetic excuses for vampires; they act like the very people who killed him. I'm overwhelmed with bitterness and scurry off into the darkness of an alleyway. The shadows shade me from humanity and I lower myself down beside a dumpster. What if my father is looking down at me now? Is he disappointed? Is he ashamed of the path I am walking? I say that I'm seeking Utopia but yet I begin to feel like that rocket, as if I am wandering aimlessly from destination to destination without furthering my cause, my destiny.

I am alone. I am surrounded by people, but I am alone. The pipes spew grilled steam from restaurants that make me queasy and I am disgusted further. With heaviness draped across my belly, I wander back to the end of the street to get some air. It is claustrophobic here; the lack of meaning traps me. It is a box. A rainy, purposeless and grim box, stuffed with people who serve to fertilize the soil and nothing more. So bleak. So very bleak.

A white van coughs up the street and slows down before the curb at my feet. Inside, I see four faces and one of them gives me a flashback: Pop-Eye. It is them; the few of the enlightened humans who harass my kind with stakes and knives. They unload themselves from the vehicles, pulling up their sleeves and suggesting violence. "I knew you had the look," one of them says. "You're one of them."

An icicle of fear stabs me. I am yet to take on humans in the city without my parents. They try to circle me but I dart off into the alley and sprint with speed beyond their perception. I lean against a wall to catch myself from the anxiety until shadows approach me from both sides again. It is the men again and I forget that this is their city, they know every inch of it. I cannot hide. "Look after me, father," I whisper to myself, as I watch the grip of jagged, serrated knives tighten and tilt towards me. I cannot use my abilities so liberally. It may summon a crowd.

The wind whips past suddenly and acts as a whistle for the brawl. A fist twirls through the air at me and I dodge it with precision, calculating where exactly to move so to also elude the second blow. The men curse and yelp as none of their knuckles make contact with me, and in one joyous moment, two of the men accidentally punch each-other. It looks like my dad really came through for me. I get a little more confident with my silent skills and begin to trip the men from the ankles so that they tumble over on top of each other. I knock down two of them without problem but when a knife gashes my throat and a fist follows into my cheek, I am floored, weak and light-headed. Writhing and wiggling, I try to shuffle away but all four men manage to gather themselves and tower over me, each taking turns to crunch their metal-topped boots into my ribs, thighs and spine.

"I'm sorry, father," I gurgle. "After everything, I'm taken down by humans."

Perhaps I over-estimated myself, or under-estimated these thugs but whatever the case, I sensed the end of it all, Utopia, salvation, everything. The scent of the gyrus trees began to numb and slip away like a lost love. I would be slain by humans, just like my parents. With my death, would come theirs. They were so alive in my memories, so tangible. But they would now truly die with me. I could not immortalize them.

With a crunch, a scream and two curses, all fell silent. Too silent. I awaited the knife to enter my heart but it never came. I could feel my vampire blood even start to heal my wounds and regenerate. Slowly, cautiously, I eek my eyes open and survey my surroundings. There are two bodies on the floor, two Pop-Eyes, and over one of them crouches a shady man who I cannot make-out. It looks as if he is mauling the body of the man with his mouth and then it hits me. My vision corrects itself and the man is looking at me, his lips swollen with blood not of his own. I am lost for words, wide eyes.

"You really have to be more careful if you're gonna parade around the city like that," he says, pulling me to my feet. "And you were floored by four humans? Really? What kind of vampire are you? My name's Jasper. But you can call me Jasp since, you know, we're both blood-suckers and all that."

Another vampire? I almost choke and begin to cough as my wound seals itself up across my throat. A hand falls on my back and I scurry backwards. Trust nobody. I cannot trust anyone. Not even vampires. I wipe my eyes and brush my coat off, clearing my throat and puffing out my chest.

"You could say thank you, you know. I just saved your life and stuff."

"Thank you," I grumble sarcastically, edging past this "Jasper" so to be on my way and do what I set out to do in the first place.

"Where you headed?" he shouts towards me, as I walk into the oily urban mists.

"Utopia," I say, not turning around and looking straight ahead.

"Utopia?" he asks, mulling over the word for a moment. "Hey! Hold up! I wanna come with!"

* * *

_Liked it? Let me know!_


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